Theorizing Without All the Facts
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sherlock is on a hunt to eliminate all of Moriarty's web and finally return home...and to John. Back in London, John does the best he can to cope after watching his best friend jump to his death. Angst with eventual Johnlock.
1. Prologue

**Hello again! This is an idea that has been rattling around in my head for a while now and I finally put it on the page. This is my version of Post-Reichenbach John and Sherlock, beginning from the last scene of the series and continuing after Sherlock's return. This story is unrelated to any of my others. Please read and review.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…dead."

John could feel his face twist in disbelief at what he had just said and he fought back tears. There was no way Sherlock could come back from the dead. Death was final, permanent; there was no coming back, even for a genius like Sherlock Holmes. He had seen for himself Sherlock's body sprawled on the sidewalk, his beautiful blue eyes vacant and lifeless, felt his wrist, the pulse gone, and seen his blood pooling beneath him on the dirty pavement, soaking into his blue scarf and coat so that drops of blood dripped from the fabric as the paramedics took him away. Sherlock was dead. _He was not coming back_.

Still, John stood in front of the cold, black stone and begged.

"Would you do that for me? Just for me? Just…stop it. Stop this."

He gave himself over to the tears, burying his face in his hands, and crying as he had not allowed himself to cry since he was very young. His sobs were painful and wrenching, tearing something inside him apart and he knew it would never be healed. John's memories of Sherlock assaulted his mind, burdening him in grief so thick and choking his chest hurt and his lungs felt paralyzed. He knew there would always be a place in his heart for Sherlock Holmes, the genius consulting detective, the only one in the world. It would never go away, this longing for Sherlock, the pain of his death. _Sherlock_.

When the maelstrom was over, John straightened his spine and shoved down the horrible, crushing sadness. He steeled himself to move on, to face the world without the electric presence of Sherlock beside him. It seemed a depressingly bleak prospect.

John nodded once, and stiffly walked away from the implacable gravestone.

* * *

Sherlock watched John break down in front of his grave and felt a rush of longing so strong he had to grip the tree he hid behind in order to keep himself from running across the grass to John, dodging stones, and grab him. He would shake him and hold him and kiss him and beg him to stop crying- he was alive, there was no reason to cry- please, John…_stop crying_. John Watson, strong, remarkable, loyal John Watson should not be crying over him.

He had tried to ease the burden John would feel by telling him he was a fake. He had known John had been bothered by the articles and the rumors and the accusations swirling about Sherlock's name and his supposedly faked talents. He had assumed that hearing it from his own mouth would be the final nudge to convince John that he was as everyone said: a fake, a fraud, just smoke and mirrors, a dangerous, manipulative psychopath. It would have made it easier for John when Sherlock jumped- why would he care if someone who had betrayed and knowingly lied to him killed himself?

John had not listened, though. Amazingly loyal, brave, faithful John Hamish Watson had surprised him as he had gripped his mobile and looked up at Sherlock poised to jump from the roof of St. Bart's.

"No one could be that clever." Believe me, John, believe me. Tears threatened as Sherlock knew he was pushing away the best thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. It was necessary. It was hateful.

"You could."

_Oh, John_.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the rough bark of the tree and could only silently and helplessly watch as John continued to cry. He could not hear his sobs from where he stood, but they were evident in the way John's whole body shook and heaved. Sherlock refused to close his eyes, refused to look away from his friend's sadness, even though it ripped pieces of his heart away and he knew it would haunt him forever. John had endured worse…he still believed Sherlock had killed himself in front of his very eyes. If he only knew…but he couldn't know. It was protecting John's life to keep the knowledge from him. John was his note.

_I'm sorry._

The thought sobered Sherlock and made him even more resolved. He would destroy Moriarty's criminal web…and would return to John and explain everything to him. One day, one day in the distance future- unless one of them died (and knowing what he faced, Sherlock thought it more likely to be him), Sherlock would return and be with John. He would fix him, whatever was wrong with him, as he had done when John had been invalided home from Afghanistan. They would live at 221B Baker Street together, Sherlock would solve cases, John would blog about it, and…and…they would be together. Together.

Sherlock's eyes hungrily watched as John finally straightened, nodded, and walked away from his fake gravestone. His eyes followed him all the way out of the cemetery and to the cab where Mrs. Hudson was waiting. He would not be seeing John again…possibly for a very long time and something in his chest tightened painfully and he blinked back tears, swallowing thickly, refusing to cry.

When he lost sight of John and the cab pulled away, winding its way back through the cemetery, something bleak and cold entered Sherlock's heart and he unconsciously placed a hand over his chest where a deep, sharp ache had begun.

He straightened his spine, thinking of John, and steeled himself. Now was not the time to wallow in sentiment and emotions.

It was time to begin.


	2. Chapter 1

**Thanks to the people who are supporting this story! I am so grateful to you guys.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

John looked blankly around the almost empty flat, spinning awkwardly with his cane clutched in one hand. His boxes had already been taken away but he had wanted to come say goodbye and torture himself one last time. His new apartment was across town, small and bare, in a rather dingy part of the city, and John felt as if it were a type of prison compared to the roomy, warm flat he had shared here.

The sitting room was bare- no sofa, no armchairs, no skull on the mantelpiece, no violin stand. All that remained to mark the former inhabitants was the yellow smiley still painted on the wall, complete with bullet holes and chipped plaster. John could not have looked at the room and told that two men had lived there for eighteen months, but he was sure that Sherlock could have. There would have been something about the wear on the carpet, or the certain way the drapes hung, or the light bulbs would have given it all away. John did not "observe" the way Sherlock did- he never had- but he could see himself and Sherlock superimposed over the emptiness of the flat.

He could see Sherlock in a high sulk, flinging himself onto the sofa in his blue dressing gown, the two of them meeting clients and John trying to prevent Sherlock from snapping at everyone, Sherlock swaying as he played his violin in front of the window, Sherlock yelling at the telly and John laughing hysterically as Sherlock's accusations got more and more outlandish. He saw them stumbling into the sitting room, wounded and laughing, patching each other up then slumping on the sofa to eat takeaways and giggle like twelve year olds. Sherlock in his thinking pose, John typing on his blog and Sherlock making snide comments, solving cases with paperwork spread out over every available surface- John saw it all. Every surface held another memory, each one sharp and painful like knives.

He limped into the kitchen which was miraculously clean and he blinked in surprise. He had not known the counters were actually that color- they had always been covered in Sherlock's science equipment and various experiments. Mrs. Hudson had boxed everything up and donated it to a school. John smiled sadly when he thought of Sherlock's outrage at such callous treatment of his precious equipment- being manhandled and broken in some public school full of idiots who had not a care for the science of deduction.

John knew he was torturing himself needlessly as he ran his hand along the door to the fridge before opening it to find all the contents removed. Nothing bloody, no thumbs, no head, no experiments-in-progress…nothing of Sherlock remained. It was once again an innocent looking fridge that could have graced the flat of any person in London. His face twisted before he resolutely closed it and limped past where he had used to make him and Sherlock tea, the table they had eaten and laughed at together, the table that was scratched and burned and scarred from Sherlock's experiments and mishaps. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would replace it for the new tenants and John trailed his fingers along the rough wood before leaving the kitchen.

He limped into the hallway and stared at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, silently willing it to open, banging against the wall, and Sherlock to dash out, his eyes gleaming and yelling at John to hurry and get ready- there was a case! He would dash to his coat and whirl it about himself, quickly knot his scarf and push John ahead of him down the stairs and into a cab that he always seemed to summon as if by magic. John stared and wished and hoped, but the door remained closed.

John's sigh sounded more like a whine than an exhalation of air.

Sherlock's room was empty, completely bare, and John wondered what had happened to all of his possessions. He had been unable to return to the flat after….after…what had happened and so he supposed the task had fallen to Mrs. Hudson to clean and get rid of things. Perhaps Mycroft- but John stopped that thought instantly. He did not want to think of Mycroft- ever again. His hand clenched on his cane and cold, implacable anger surged inside him. He wanted to kill the son of a bitch and if he had been standing in front of Mycroft in that instant, John knew he could have shot him and felt no remorse. It was his fault- his fault Sherlock had…had done that.

It was many minutes before John had enough control of his emotions to leave Sherlock's room and when he did, he firmly shut the door and leaned back against it, resting his head on the wood and staring up at the ceiling, the enormity of it all crashing down on him.

There would be no more mad dashes across rooftops, no more daringly catching criminals, no more Angelo's at all hours of the night, no more shouting at crap telly, no more skull, no more violin tortures at all hours of the night, no more blog posts and fighting with Sherlock through the comments, no more running out of milk and arguing with Sherlock about whose turn it was to get it, no more experiments in the fridge (and John was a bit surprised to find that he would miss that. Who wanted normal fridge contents? Boring), no more laughing so hard his stomach hurt and his chest ached and he was seriously afraid- for just a split second- that he would die laughing because there was no way he could stop long enough to pull in air, no more….no more _Sherlock_.

There would be life after Sherlock Holmes just as there had been life _before_ Sherlock. John had lived almost forty years without a Sherlock Holmes in his life, and he knew he could survive the rest of his life without one. He would have to. It would not be the same life with Sherlock- such mad, glorious things only happened once in a lifetime- but there would still be life, full of all the pain and sadness, happiness and laughter, good times and bad that everyone else experienced. It was just not the same knowing he would go through all those times without Sherlock by his side, without the fathomless blue eyes and quick wit, because in some small part of his heart- the part that he seldom examined and never let anyone else see- John had been expecting to live the rest of his life with the consulting detective. It had seemed insane and stupid and…and perfect. Fitting.

When John went down the stairs of 221B for the last time, he remembered the first time he climbed up after Sherlock- ages ago, another lifetime. He had not known _then_ how he would feel about the slightly odd young man who had deduced him in an instant, invited him to a crime scene, and then went off with a homicidal cabbie whom John had been forced to shoot. He had not known how much time he would have with Sherlock, and John paused as pain swept through his chest. What would he have done differently if he had known? How would he have acted if he had been aware that 18 months were all he would ever have with Sherlock? He would have…would have…No. John sagged against the wall and closed his eyes. Don't go down that road, John, just don't. It's done, over, finished. You can't go back and relive it, can't torture yourself over what might have been. He raised a shaking hand to his face and scrubbed hard, trying to stop the flood of hot tears that made his eyes burn and his throat choke up.

"John?"

John jumped and looked down the remaining stairs where Mrs. Hudson stood, the lines in her face deepened with sadness. She smiled up at him, a watery smile that still managed to touch her eyes, and John sighed and thudded down the stairs on his cane.

"Sorry, just…saying goodbye." His voice was low and husky with emotion and for a second, John was afraid Mrs. Hudson would ask if he were all right. It was what everyone else had been asking him ever since…since it had happened. Did they really think John would be "all right?" Oh, yeah, just watched my best friend jump to his death in front of my very eyes- I'm just fine, you? Let's go grab a pint, watch the game.

_Idiots._

"Oh, John." Mrs. Hudson squeaked through her tears and suddenly she pulled John towards her, guiding his head down to her shoulder in a motherly way and carding her fingers through his hair. John stiffened, before wrapping his arms around her and allowing her to hug him.

For a brief minute, John leaned his forehead against Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, screwed up his face, and gave into the hot, scorching tears of loss. He allowed her hands to rub up and down his back in useless comfort and he felt her own sobs shaking her deceptively frail little frame. He knew _he_ should be the one offering comfort to _her_ after the loss of the young man she had looked on almost as a son. She was so fragile- then, as if from another lifetime, Sherlock's words floated to him…

_Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!_

He pulled away and Mrs. Hudson laughed and wiped at her face with a lace handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

"He'd think we were being a couple of idiots crying over him like this."

John sniffed and wiped his own face. "He was the idiot for thinking we wouldn't." he said in a low, bitter voice and Mrs. Hudson's face fell, her eyes welling up with more tears. He wished he had not said anything.

"Are you sure, John? About leaving? There'll always be room…"

"I can't stay." John said, feeling panic at the very thought of sleeping in his bedroom, knowing Sherlock was not downstairs experimenting or playing his violin. Knowing Sherlock would not wake him up to go out on a case, Sherlock would not be there when he went down the next morning to make breakfast…no Sherlock to refuse to eat and then steal bites off his plate when he thought John was not looking.

There were memories etched onto every surface of the flat and it would drive John slowly mad to look at them every day and remember.

"Come back by, John, and we'll have a chat and a nice cuppa." Mrs. Hudson said, taking his hand in hers and trying to smile, though her chin kept bucking. John squeezed her hand and tried to smile back but it hurt too much and he stopped. He doubted he would be coming back to 221B Baker Street ever again.

* * *

There was a difference between accidentally killing someone, or being forced to kill them in an "it's me or you" scenario, and plotting and planning and cold-blooded scheming to kill them. Sherlock was learning the difference as he spectacularly threw up in a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse. The man he had been pursuing for the past week, the man first on his list of Moriarty's network, now lay dead behind him, his glassy eyes staring vacantly up at the ceiling where beams of sunlight filtered in through the holes. Sherlock shakily wiped his mouth and glanced back at the body, willing himself to look and not flinch away. He convulsively swallowed and made himself look at the gaping gunshot wound to the man's chest. When he had recovered, he would force himself to examine the exit wound and set fire to the body but at the moment his knees were too shaky to carry him over.

Even the thought that if Donovan and Anderson could see the "psychopath" now they would get a laugh could not cheer him up. He was _supposed_ to be cold, ruthless, but the fact that he had so coldly hunted down and killed a man weighed heavily on him. He had not thought it would. Taking down Moriarty's network required killing. He had known that, had anticipated it. The reality was far different than Sherlock had originally thought.

He did not question if he could continue doing this. He knew he could. He had to. He questioned what this meant about him. What would this make him?

He did not want to be James Moriarty.

"_We're the same, you and I." _

No. He was wrong. They were not the same. There were fundamental differences that made Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty different. There had to be. If there weren't, why was he doing this?

Sherlock did not want to contemplate what John would think of his actions but it was the main reason he was now retching in a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse. Would he understand…or be horrified? Would he look at Sherlock in revulsion, seeing a mirror image of Moriarty, after Sherlock had killed so many people so ruthlessly? John had been a soldier, yes, but he had also been a doctor. A healer, not a killer. John had killed people both in Afghanistan and back in England but he had chosen to heal people instead. It was only when he was _forced_ to kill people that he did so, such as when they were harming the people he lov- the people he cared about, such as Sherlock. He did not plot to kill them in cold blood.

The fact of the matter, Sherlock reminded himself as he stared with unseeing eyes at the dead man, was that he was not being _forced_ to take down Moriarty's web. He could have allowed others to do it or simply have faked his death and laid low for a while. He could have left everything up to Mycroft and hoped that they did a good job.

But he did not trust others to do the work for him…not when John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade's life was on the line. He could not afford slip-ups, so he would do it himself. But would John see it that way? Would Sherlock emerge from this the same?

For once, Sherlock did not have all the answers.


	3. Chapter 2

**It was never my intention to abandon this story for so long. I always say that I never abandon my stories- some of them just go on hiatus for a few weeks. Well, this one was on hiatus for a few months and I sincerely apologize to everyone who reviewed and followed because I always hate when someone starts writing something then...quits. There will be more from this story! Thanks for the support. :)**

**Warning: I never put warnings in my stories but I feel that this one may need a small one. There is a bit of violence at the end of this chapter. Nothing too graphic but it's there so please be aware of that.**

* * *

"You need to talk about it. You and Sherlock had a lot of unresolved issues and until you can resolve them, you'll always feel this way."

There was silence so profound that the gentle ticking of the clock was loud, almost deafening. They stared at each other over the short distance, just as they had for the last 59 minutes and just as they had for each session over the last three months.

Finally, the woman cleared her throat and looked down at her notes.

"John. I'm here to help you. You need to take my advice."

John sighed and looked away, staring out the window at the brilliant sunshine spilling across the grounds. He'd started going back to Ella- his first visit in 18 months- a few days after Sherlock had died. Mrs. Hudson had found him in his room, his gun in his lap, just staring into the distance. John could barely even remember getting his gun out and loading it, but he had. Even now, looking back, he was unsure if he had been contemplating suicide or not. He didn't think he had been. Somehow, holding the gun had just made him feel safer, in some way more in control, but the incident had been enough to scare both himself and Mrs. Hudson, who had tearfully suggested he see his therapist again.

"I think we'll end this session here." John could hear the disappointment and resignation in Ella's voice. She was struggling to reach him but if it hadn't been for the gun incident, John wouldn't be here. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be talking about his relationship with Sherlock and remembering everything that they had left "unresolved."

"You still have my number?"

"Yeah, yeah, still got it." John's voice was hoarse from not using it for an hour and he cleared his throat, rising from his chair, eager to leave.

"Use it. Anytime, John, day or night. If you feel…if you need someone to talk to or are afraid you'll do something you may regret. Call me."

John nodded, already almost out the door, relief coursing through his body at his escape.

* * *

"_John_! Hey, _John_!"

John winced when he recognized the voice hailing him but kept walking, his cane striking against the pavement, hoping that maybe if he pretended he couldn't hear they would-

"Oi! _John_!"

They were closer now, too close to reasonably pretend he couldn't hear them, and John sighed in defeat. He straightened his shoulders and turned to see Greg Lestrade jogging towards him, grinning, his eyes alight. John clutched his cane and suppressed the urge to punch the smile off his face as months and months of resentment and anger rose up all at once.

"John, how ya been?" Greg asked, breathing heavily from the short jog. John felt a sharp, horrible pain in his chest when he wondered what Sherlock would've said about that and how he would've ribbed Lestrade for gaining weight. _Stop it._ _Just stop it, John_.

"Greg." John said coldly, stretching out his hand to take the one offered. "How have you been?" he asked, adjusting his stance with his cane and looking away from the grey-haired Detective Inspector whose face fell at the icy greeting, though he didn't seem surprised by it.

"Bloody tired. Crime rate seems to have doubled since- since a few months ago. Been working late almost every night trying to sort through all the bloody paperwork. It's a mess."

John made an indistinct noise and kept his eyes focused away, trying to convey how much he didn't want to be talking to Greg. This gave Greg a good opportunity to look John over. He didn't like what he saw.

The man in front of him looked wrecked, empty and hollow in a way Greg had never seen him look before. Previously, he had been full of life with a ready smile and just vibrant. Now though… It wasn't just the use of the cane that tipped Greg off that something wasn't right with John- it was his eyes. They were distant and sad, conveying depression and a certain resignation that sent a chill down Greg's spine. He knew the signs of people who were suicidal and John was checking off every single one of those goddamn boxes.

Greg had been expecting John to be angry with him. After all, Greg had played a part in Sherlock's spiral downward which had finally ended in his death. The knowledge was something that tortured Greg every time he thought about it and he'd tried talking to John shortly after Sherlock had jumped, wanting to explain what had happened. He hadn't been able to reach him and for the past 3 months John had been dodging his calls. Everyone Greg talked to- Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even fucking Mycroft- had been unable to reach him as well. John had cut himself off from everyone and Greg had been starting to get pretty worried. He'd gotten John's new address from Mrs. Hudson and had been preparing to go and talk to John, whether the obstinate doctor wanted him to or not. So he'd been both surprised and happy when he'd seen John limping down the sidewalk.

Now, seeing John in front of him…looking like this…he realized he should've followed Mrs. Hudson's advice and tried harder. He should've tried to see John months ago, right after everything happened, not given him space and time to brood.

"How've you been, though? Mrs. Hudson said you moved out of Baker Street."

"Couldn't afford the rent on my salary." John said, smiling grimly and Lestrade frowned. He knew that was a lie. Mrs. Hudson would never have kicked John out and Mycroft had _told_ him he was giving John money in his bank account. John could afford a much better place than the one he was living in now. Hell, Greg would've thought twice before taking a flat in that part of London. He decided to let it go for now. No reason to start making accusations in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

"You should go see Mrs. Hudson. She's worried-"

"I've been busy. Got a new job not far from my flat." John interrupted, shifting again, turning his body almost away, a not-so-subtle hint to Greg that he was done with this conversation and ready to leave.

Greg nodded and tried to think of something else to say that wouldn't dredge up old memories. John looked hard, closed off, not inviting him to speak but Greg didn't want him to go away so quickly. He was genuinely worried about John. He had used to think of the man as something of a friend. It had always been the two of them, Greg and John, trying to figure out the mad brilliance of Sherlock, chasing after him, protecting him. Greg to a lesser extent than John, but they had shared looks and stories over Sherlock's crazy antics and there had been a kinship there, a bonding over Sherlock. Now, it seemed that bond, that friendship, was broken.

"I'm actually off in another hour, want to come down to the pub?" Greg lied, thinking of the mountain of paperwork waiting for him when he got back to the Yard, but John was more important. "We could catch up and all that. Maybe watch a game or something."

"No. Thanks, though, Greg." John nodded in dismissal and started walking away, feeling fear skitter up his spine at the idea of going to the pub, around alcohol, around too much _temptation_. He'd watched Harry spiral downward because of her addiction and he _knew_ nothing good could come of drowning yourself in alcohol every night. But it was tempting, _so fucking tempting_ to maybe be rid of the overwhelming pain he felt all the damn time. Just for a few hours to feel _nothing_.

John shuddered and kept walking.

"John."

John paused and glanced back, his posture closed off. Lestrade seemed to be doing some quick thinking, his hands on his hips, biting his lip. Finally, he drew in a deep breath.

"Look…I'm sorry about what happened with Sherlock-"

"_You should've taken up for him_!" John snarled, his anger rising to the surface. "You should've known that he'd never have done any of that! Sherlock wasn't like that! He was brilliant and no one-"He broke off, looking down at the grubby pavement, suddenly just feeling overwhelmingly tired. John had spent many sleepless nights thinking of what he wanted to say to Greg when he saw him, the accusations he wanted to hurl, the blame and guilt he wanted to make sure Greg felt. Now, standing in front of him, able to say everything he wanted- and Greg looked ready to take it and anything else John was willing to heap on his head- John just felt tired.

"John…I never got a chance to tell you…I'm sorry- I know it was my fault-"

"It wasn't." John said shortly, deflating. "It really wasn't, Greg. It was Mycroft's and Moriarty's. Not yours. I'm sure you did all you could." He said it, but he doubted it in a small way. He felt that none of them had done all they could- otherwise Sherlock would never have felt driven to commit suicide. They had all failed him in some way. He should never have felt that the only way out of his problem was suicide. That was the thought that had tortured John for the past three months.

"I could've done more." Greg said sadly and John looked up at him in surprise. "I know I could've done more. I tried to defend him but when the order came down to arrest him…"Greg shook his head. "And then when he ran…why did he have to run? He should've known nothing would stick. He was smarter than that." He swallowed thickly. "I just keep thinking of how I failed him."

"We all failed him, didn't we?" John asked quietly, feeling a lump rising in his throat. He would not fucking cry in the middle of a busy sidewalk. They stood facing each other for a few minutes, letting the crowd wash around them, parting round their bodies like a rapidly moving river around two stones.

"Why don't we get that drink, huh? Catch up a little." John suggested, giving Greg a weak, tentative smile.

* * *

John limped a bit drunkenly up the narrow stairs to his flat and unlocked his door. He could hear the noises of other people living on his floor and was almost able to tune it all out from force of habit as he shouldered open his door and limped inside. It was small, bare, and very similar to the bedsit he'd lived in when he'd first arrived back in London. John's eyes roamed over everything, taking in the sparse possessions, the cleanliness, the lack of mess and odd knickknacks littered about.

He _hated_ this place.

The sound of heavy traffic roared up at him from the window across the room and John slowly made his way over and leaned against the frame, his eyes staring unseeingly out at the traffic rumbling along below. John rested his head against the pane and tried not to think of Sherlock but the alcohol had made something glitch in his brain and memories kept filtering back not matter how hard he tried to suppress them. Most of this was probably due to seeing Greg again, listening to what Greg had said. They hadn't spoken about Sherlock at the pub, but the topic had been there, a tangible presence- even more so since they were both trying desperately to avoid it.

Memories crowded together in John's mind, creating a roar and kaleidoscope of images that almost made him sick. It'd been months since Sherlock had died and the pain was still raw and fresh.

John swallowed thickly and tried to block out the memories of that last day but they came anyway, as if summoned by the very act of trying to thrust them aside.

"_You machine_!"

God, had he said that? Why had he said that? What if that had been the one thing that had pushed Sherlock over the edge?

Ella told him that he was torturing himself by reliving that day- but how could he not? How was it possible to stop remembering all the ways he had let Sherlock down? He had left him there- why hadn't he been able to see that Sherlock needed him?

A movement from the corner of his eye made John turn and he saw a deceptively innocent white CCTV camera on the building opposite slowly panning towards him. John stared at the camera as it came to rest, it's black lens pointed straight at him like the barrel of a gun. He glared at it, made a very rude gesture, then jerked away from the window and flung the curtains closed.

* * *

Mycroft looked at John Watson's hideously cheap curtains and wondered where he had found something so…horrible. They were really…_really_ ghastly.

* * *

Sherlock was running, his legs pumping as fast as they could, air burning his lungs like fire. He could hear, over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, the heavy footfalls of the man chasing him. He had miscalculated, made a mistake- stupid idiot! _This was not the time to make a mistake_! This wasn't London. Here, there was no John to back him up with his gun and unbridled anger towards anyone who would dare hurt Sherlock. There was no Mycroft to bail him out of tight spots, however unwelcome- and unnecessary!- those escapes were.

Sherlock darted down a darkened alley and pressed himself against the wall, stifling his gasping breaths with his hand and straining his eyes to see when the assassin would pass his hiding place. The seconds stretched into a minute and Sherlock's mind was rapidly deducing the route the man would have taken, narrowing it down by everything he knew about the man and calculating probabilities, hindered by his imprecise knowledge of his surroundings.

He realized what had happened a split second before the assassin jumped from the roof onto the top of his head.

Sherlock had been trained in karate, two different forms, as well as boxing but his assailant was just as skilled. They struggled, the man pummeling Sherlock with every bit of strength he had and Sherlock utilizing every opening to inflict as much damage as possible.

It was not enough.

The man, grinning madly at his victory, pinned Sherlock to the gritty pavement, sitting on his chest and wrapping his hands around Sherlock's throat, applying the right amount of pressure to seal off his airway entirely. Instead of struggling fruitlessly, Sherlock quickly raised his leg up and plucked the stiletto from where he had tucked it into his cheap boots earlier.

Without hesitation, Sherlock plunged the stiletto between the man's ribs. He gasped sharply and struggled against Sherlock, not loosening his grip on Sherlock's neck, but Sherlock twisted the blade before withdrawing it and plunging it into the man's side again. He repeated this again and again and again, wincing only slightly when the man gurgled, blood pooling from between his lips and dripping down onto Sherlock's face. The man's fingers slowly loosened from around Sherlock's neck and began scrabbling at the hand that held the blade. Sherlock shuddered at the feeling of fingernails scratching frantically against his hand, drawing blood in stinging lines. As he took a welcome gasp of air, Sherlock struggled up and it was the work of mere seconds for him to reverse their positions, pinning the man to the ground. He wrenched the blade from the man's body and slashed, quick and clean, across his throat.

He panted, lightheaded from lack of oxygen, suddenly aware he was kneeling over the man's dead body. Sherlock scrambled backwards and sat on the dirty pavement, his back to the brick wall, legs spread out in front of him.

Sherlock struggled to breathe around the ache in his throat and the pain radiating from his ribs. He hunched over and analyzed his injuries. Fractured ribs, extensive bruising, possibly broken thumb, dislocated shoulder, rapidly swelling eye, split lip- _alive_.

Alive and he resolved to make no further mistakes. He shouldn't have made the mistake this time. He had been careless, arrogant even.

Idiot.


	4. Chapter 3

**To everyone who is following this story- you guys are so awesome and patient. :) As well as awesome and amazing and a few other adjectives used by John Watson.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Sherlock casually walked a few paces behind his mark, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his grey hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head, obscuring his face and protecting his recently shorn head from the hard rain that fell in gusty sheets. He had been following the man since he had left his residence shortly before noon that day. It had taken longer than he had liked to deduce the man's whereabouts, and time wasn't on his side. He needed to complete this task as speedily as possible, before he was seen, before he was caught. It was crucial that he not be seen doing this.

_Late riser due to recent unemployment- unable to hold down a job most likely due to his current reliance on alcohol- suffering from insomnia, depression- hasn't bought new clothes in months. The man was no doubt struggling financially but this also spoke of him being suicidal, his depression making him uncaring about his appearance, making him desperate_.

Sherlock read the signs in mere seconds and he pressed his lips together. He had almost been too late and it was imperative he wasn't. This man was _important_. Without him, what he was doing was meaningless. He was what held it all together.

The man paused at the corner of the street, looking first left then right, up and down the rain slickened street, his head almost obscured by his large black umbrella. Sherlock knew he was thinking of hailing a cab, none of which were to be seen in these conditions, and in this part of the city. The man's shoulders slumped, admitting defeat over finding a cab and began to limp off down the sidewalk.

_His leg is giving him pain_. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he slowly followed the man, shivering only slightly as the rain seeped into the cheap cotton of his hoodie and clung to his back as the wind blew it against his skin. The pain wasn't from the weather- barometric pressures were known to make old wounds ache- but such wasn't this man's case. Sherlock's mind helpfully supplied him with the real reason the man's leg was dodgy. His eyes hardened even further.

As the man entered a busier part of the city, Sherlock stayed further back, not wanting to be seen or connected to this man in any way, even remotely. The limp was intensifying and the man's cane was more heavily leaned upon as he waited at the light to cross at a busy intersection. Sherlock bought a newspaper and held it over his head, joining the queue waiting to cross, and his eyes raked over the man's thin frame as a starving man would look at a long-awaited dinner.

John looked battered, beaten down, in a way that made Sherlock almost want to panic. He had feared, after seeing the way John had reacted in the graveyard, that he may become depressed and withdrawn. It was a natural, expected, human reaction when someone lost a loved one and Sherlock hadn't thought John would be any different. All the articles he had read suggested that a person should be healing at the five month mark, if not before then. John…John wasn't healing. He was spiraling downward, it was obvious. Everything about him informed Sherlock of this- his weight loss, the bags under his eyes, the slight stubble on his face, his faded and worn clothing, his shoes that were scuffed and old, his limp, his recent alcoholism. It was all there, all directing Sherlock to the only conclusion to be made.

The light flicked to green and the group that had been waiting to cross began to move as one across the road.

Excitement spiked and made adrenaline surge through Sherlock's veins.

John was mere feet away from him. He could just reach out and touch him, it would be easy to make it look like an accident in such a large group. John would turn with that familiar frown on his face, ready to see who had bumped him- and then his eyes would widen in recognition. He would-

_Stop it._

Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist and directed his eyes down, watching his feet, clad in cheap sneakers, splashing across the pavement. Just stop it. You know you can't do that. Why waste the mental effort fantasizing about it? You need to stay sharp and focused on other things, not alternate realities.

They reached the sidewalk and Sherlock frowned as he realized where John was going. His therapist? Oh, yes, the limp. No doubt John thought visiting…Ella, yes that was her name, would cure it. Doubtful. That woman was almost as incompetent as Anderson.

When John disappeared into his therapist's office, Sherlock kept walking. He covertly checked the CCTV cameras on the buildings as he passed but none swiveled to follow him. He couldn't help but grin smugly at this.

* * *

It was another hour before John emerged from the building, rain still pouring down in buckets, and Sherlock castigated himself. He should have left during that hour. He shouldn't have gone across the road and purchased himself a coffee and then sat reading his soggy newspaper for that hour, eyes flicking to the front of the building, watching for John. He should have left…but he had stayed.

He knew he shouldn't even be here. It was too dangerous, risky, but after almost 6 months of non-stop running, wreaking havoc with Moriarty's well-planned and efficient criminal web, Sherlock had been unable to resist stopping back in London again. And, once there, he had been unable to resist finding John. Not that he had any intention of telling him he was alive- such information would be dangerous and place John's life in peril- but he _had_ to see him, know he was ok, know John was safe.

Sherlock was glad he had come because he could tell that John wasn't any of those things.

Apparently, the session with Ella had been a hard one because John's face looked even more drawn than it had an hour earlier. Sherlock read the signs of mental and physical exhaustion even from a hundred feet away. He left the café and shadowed John as he visited a pharmacist- what had Ella prescribed him? Sleeping pills? Anxiety medication? Something for his depression? Sherlock was incensed that he had no way of knowing. If he could just get close enough- but that was too risky. He had to settle for being ignorant and deducing that John was reluctant to fill the prescription, was embarrassed when he picked it up, and shoved the pills into his pocket without looking at them. He was unhappy with whatever it was. Sherlock was _burning_ to _know_.

He was so lost in his own musings and theories that he made a mistake. He didn't realize until it was too late that John was headed right towards him, limping up the aisle in which he stood, pretending to search for a greeting card while actually covertly looking at John.

Sherlock pulled his face further into his hoodie and John limped right past him, never sparing a glance in his direction, and Sherlock felt equal parts relief and overwhelming sadness. To be so close to the person he wanted more than anyone else in the world and yet be unable to speak to them was agonizing.

He cleared his throat and shoved these feelings aside, forcing his hands to steady themselves as he plucked another greeting card from the shelf and stared at it unseeingly.

He left the pharmacist's a few minutes after John and once he gained the pavement, the doctor was nowhere to be seen. It was as he had expected and planned but Sherlock was surprised to feel actual tears prick his eyes when he realized he wouldn't be seeing John again for a long time.

He huffed, balling his hands into fists inside his hoodie pocket, and allowed anger to swiftly take the place of weaker emotions.

He had a visit to make.

* * *

Lightning flashed across the night sky and was swiftly followed by the slow rumble of thunder. Rain pelted the windows of Mycroft Holmes' office, sounding as if someone were throwing rocks against the panes. Mycroft himself was oblivious to the storm raging outside his study, too busy navigating his mind which was working at top speed as he made plans and crafted together schemes that would do Machiavelli proud. After the meeting with the diplomats from Japan (the unofficial ones, of course) he had much to think over, as well as important decisions to make before the morning. Calls would be made, a few lives ruined, but he thought if he were clever enough (and Mycroft was _always_ clever enough) he could spin this situation _just_ _so_ that-

The barest whisper of cloth as it brushed against wood was the first sign of the intruder.

Mycroft's finger hovered over his panic-button, then he straightened his hand and grasped the gun where it was fixed underneath his desk. He knew the motion would be hidden by his large chair and not seen by the trespasser, whose location was exactly ten feet behind him and to his left. They had gotten in by the garden window-

"I realize we've never enjoyed a particularly pleasant relationship but would you stoop to fratricide, brother dear?"

There have been exactly two times in his life that Mycroft has been surprised, neither of these times being particularly pleasant or enjoyable.

The third time was no different.

There was that sickening feeling he would faint as all the blood rushed from his head, followed by the weak, trembling sensation in his extremities. Breaking into a cold sweat, heartbeat accelerating, blood pressure rising, and stomach twisting itself into terrible knots. The worst part was the sluggish way his mind struggled to connect what had just happened to his previous assumption of reality- this time being particularly difficult, considering who he had just heard speak.

He still clasped his gun as he swiveled his chair around to face the familiar- and never expected to see again- intruder.

Mycroft froze as he stared at his brother who leaned against the wall of his office and smirked, obviously pleased with himself and his brilliance. Sherlock had shorn away his curly hair- that hair that had always made him look boyish even in his thirties and secretly reminded Mycroft of Peter Pan- and without it his cheekbones stood out in stark contrast. He had lost weight, 12 pounds, and seemed wiry instead of lean. His nose had been broken twice and Mycroft vaguely wondered how much of a blow that had been to Sherlock's vanity. He wore a cheap grey…thing (calling it a jumper would be too generous) and even cheaper jeans that were torn in more than one place. He was soaked to the skin from the rain and Mycroft could see the slight chills that wracked his body.

His brief perusal had been enough time to allow him to gain control of himself again and he took a deep breath and clicked the safety back on his gun. He replaced it then stood and walked over to the table containing his brandy, pouring himself a large one and keeping his back to his brother, effectively dismissing him. He was afraid that if he looked back at him, he would engage Sherlock in unwanted affectionate displays consisting of hugs and tears.

_He was alive._

"Mycroft-"

"The next words I hear had better be an apology for what you did, Sher-lock." Mycroft's voice broke over his name and he closed his eyes, fighting a battle with traitorous tears that threatened to spill over. He had thought- well, he had been wrong. Obviously.

"Apologize? If you weren't clever enough to work out what had happened on your own-"

"Damn it, Sherlock, I thought you killed yourself!" Mycroft exploded, throwing his glass across the room where it shattered against the wall and whirled to face his brother, whose eyes were wide and shocked. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he had lost control of himself and his emotions and some distant part of his mind was just as stunned as Sherlock was.

"Mycroft…"

"This wasn't some childish game for you to win! This wasn't-"Mycroft broke off and closed his eyes. He took deep, calming breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose and felt himself shaking all over, his body reeling in shock and anger that Sherlock was alive- had been alive the whole time.

"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was closer to him and Mycroft opened his eyes. "I need your help."

Mycroft knew how much that statement had cost Sherlock to make. They stared at each other for long minutes, having a whole conversation without uttering a word, but reaching a perfect understanding at the end of it.

"This is about John."

"Yes."

"You've seen him."

"Obviously."

Mycroft ignored Sherlock's irritated tone and nodded, indicating the sofa near the crackling fire. Sherlock merely stared at it and Mycroft rolled his eyes. It seemed his brother hadn't changed.

He took the time to make a few phone calls, ordering food and tea which he knew he wouldn't have to force Sherlock to eat- though his brother would no doubt starve to death before admitting he was hungry. He was already well on his way, Mycroft thought, noticing the way Sherlock's bony wrist was exposed by his…jumper.

"I have tried to talk to John over the past few months. He refuses to have anything to do with me. I still track his movements, of course-"

"It's not enough."

Mycroft steadily regarded Sherlock over his glass of newly poured brandy. "What would you have me do?"

* * *

John felt as if the pills in his pocket were visible for everyone to see. He hated them and swallowed thickly around his revulsion that Ella thought he needed an anti-psychotic in order to function anymore. This was a new low for him, and just when he thought he couldn't sink lower. He heaved a sigh as he walked down the cracking sidewalk, the rain dripping down the ends of his umbrella and soaking into his shoes. He needed to get it together. He knew that. _He knew that_. This was no way to live.

It was as he was paused at a light, waiting to cross the road on the way back to his flat, that he heard a somewhat familiar metallic clicking noise. He glanced around, looking for the source, and spotted a wayward looking youth a few feet away under an awning, shaking a can of spray paint, surveying the stretch of brick in front of him with a keen eye. The youth looked around shadily before spraying a large red circle on the brick, followed by symbols or words John couldn't make out. He wasn't an expert on graffiti.

"_I need to ask some advice."_

Excitement exploded in John's gut when he realized who it was- _Raz_. The same punk who had managed to get him an ASBO- Raz!

"Hey- Raz!"

The delinquent jumped and whirled, eyes wide, ready to bolt from whoever was calling his name. When he saw the older man limping towards him, he paused and frowned, looking quizzically at John.

"I know you, mate?"

"You're Raz, right? Sherlock Holmes's expert on graffiti?" John asked, smiling, remembering walking with Sherlock to find the young hoodlum- the first time he had heard Sherlock say he needed help with something. It had been a monumental day.

"If you're one of those bloody reporters you can sod off. I know Sherlock was real." He replied stubbornly, his eyes squinting, as if daring John to contradict him or fight him. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

John felt a rush of genuine gratitude towards the young man and grinned. "Yeah. I mean, no, no I'm not a reporter or anything. But I agree with you. Sherlock was for real." John said, and Raz looked at him, really looked at him, his eyes sweeping from head to foot and taking in everything. It was nothing close to Sherlock's all-knowing gaze, but it was so eerily similar, John felt his heart painfully turn over.

"Hey- _I know you_! You're the doctor, the guy Sherlock was always running round with! The guy who wrote the blog!" Raz said excitedly, snapping his fingers as the memory came back to him. "John Watson!"

"Yeah, that's me." John said, having to force a smile as memories of he and Sherlock running about London crashed through him, the images fresh and painful but Raz was oblivious to the pain John was in. His face split into a huge smile and he offered John his hand, then pulled him into a one armed hug, which John returned somewhat awkwardly.

"You're a legend, man. A bleedin' legend." Raz sounded awed, his eyes round, and John frowned.

"What're you talking about?"

"Just you and Sherlock, mate. You were the only one who ever got close to him, you know?" Raz shook his head in wonder at his idol and John shifted from foot to foot, readjusting his cane. "It's bollocks what they're printin' about him and Moriarty. Moriarty was real. This Richard Brook shit isn't true. Sherlock was for real."

"Everyone wanted to believe the bad about Sherlock-"

"Just cause he's a bleedin' genius." Raz said sullenly and John's liking of the boy lifted. Perhaps he could forgive him for the ASBO. It felt so good to finally talk to someone else who believed in Sherlock like he did. Greg did, but there was still doubt in his mind when it came to Sherlock and his actions. Raz, though, had known Sherlock, had earned the consulting detective's trust and good opinion, and vice versa.

"I know." John sighed and shrugged. "I've posted on my blog but…"He sighed and shrugged. "No one believes it."

Raz shook his head and turned back to his graffiti, beginning a long monologue on how all of society was like sheep…and John Watson came up with a plan.

* * *

Sherlock stretched out on the hard mattress of the hotel bed, his arms and legs flung out and dangling off the edges. He could hear the roar of the ocean waves as they crashed against the rocks below and sighed, running through the plan to catch the weapons smugglers the following morning- when he heard his phone ping with an incoming message.

_It seems you are becoming quite the celebrity, little brother- MH_

There was a photo attachment and Sherlock opened it, snorting when he realized that it depicted a well-done rendering of his face, done in black spray paint on a white car garage, over the words "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock squinted at the photo, trying to deduce who had done it before another incoming message made his phone vibrate in his hand.

This photo was different than the last. There was no face but it showed red letters on the side of a bus stop: "Moriarty Was Real." He frowned. Who-

Another message was received and he quickly opened it. This was simply a capture of a CCTV screen and Sherlock's heart tripped over in his chest when he saw who it was. Raz and…_John_.

John was standing beside Raz with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked to the side, a happy smile making the corners of his mouth turn up. Raz was hunched over, busily working on the graffiti that would soon be Sherlock's face, apparently under the direction of John.

_These have been showing up all over the city. I suppose your blogger has taken up your mantle. MH_

John believed in him.

Sherlock smiled fondly at the photos, happiness a warm glow in his chest.


	5. Chapter 4

**This chapter is dedicated to Reader74, whose wonderful review inspired me to finish this chapter and finally update this sorely neglected story. Thanks, my dear! Your review gave me the warm fuzzies :)**

**I'm going to give a dubcon warning at the front of this...it's not really dubcon but, yeah, I just want to be sure.**

* * *

"You could afford a better flat."

The words fell into the stiff, uncomfortable silence of John's small flat like heavy stones. John looked at the smug bastard who was currently crushing his favorite cushion with his expensively tailored arse and smiled, a cold smile, and received one in return.

"I like it here."

Mycroft snorted. "Let's not lie to each other. You hate it here. Why you chose this ramshackle little place in the worst part of London is beyond even me."

"I can't go back to Baker Street."

"While that will always remain a possible avenue of housing for you, I would not advise it just yet. Emotional scars can be…very lasting and destructive. You could still afford a better flat."

"You mean with the money you gave me." John replied, his voice low and vibrating with suppressed anger. He had been angry- no, _furious_- ever since he had found an exorbitant amount of money had been deposited into his account shortly after Sherlock's death. It wasn't a great leap to figure out who'd done it, and why, and the rage had roiled through John's gut like hot acid, eating away any resolve he'd managed to scrape together in the days after that event. He hadn't touched the money in the ensuing months, not for anything- even though his utilities had almost been turned off three times, and once actually had been. He refused. He didn't need Mycroft's…help. Fat lot of help he'd been to his brother, John's mind snarled, and he was in complete agreement.

"That money was mine to give. It was my brother's, taken directly from the trust our parents set up for him when he was a boy. He had been reaping the benefits of that trust for most of his adult life but….circumstances as they are, I thought you could use it." Mycroft glanced down at his lap in order to avoid looking at John, who suddenly looked so raw and pained, close to tears, at the idea of Sherlock's trust now being his. Mycroft gave him a few moments to compose himself, letting the silence sit in the flat and stifle them both with so many words unsaid and memories, so many memories. Only he had the comfort of knowing Sherlock was still alive, while John was left to suffer.

"I didn't know that."

Mycroft glanced up at John and stared blandly at him. "I believe he would have wanted you to have it, John." He chose his next words carefully. "He cared-"

"_Don't_." John snapped, clenching his jaw and fists. "The trust may be yours to give but that's….that's not. Don't mention any of that."

Mycroft dropped his eyes again and fondled the head of his umbrella, moving the conversation into steadier waters. "If you are so opposed to using the money there are your own earnings-"

"I'm jobless at the moment."

"Work can be arranged for you-"

"I don't want anything from you."

And John didn't. He knew what Mycroft was trying to do- assuage his conscious which demanded he make recompense for his part in his brother's death. John wanted no part of it. He didn't want to make Mycroft feel better. If he could, he wanted to make the other man hurt as much as possible for what he had willfully done to Sherlock. Even Mycroft's confession of whose money had been given to John didn't make him feel better- if anything, it made him feel worse. He didn't want Sherlock's money. It should have been Sherlock's.

Mycroft heaved a sigh, turning his eyes to the ceiling as if John were trying his patience and was on his last nerve. John felt a vengeful sort of satisfaction.

"I am _trying_ to assist you-"

"I don't want you to. I don't want…. Why are you here? Seriously, Mycroft. I don't want you here and it's obvious you have other places to be."

Mycroft's gaze was steady as he stared over at John. "I made a promise, John, and I intend to keep it. No matter how opposed you are to my doing so."

"I don't want you to. I release you from whatever promise you made."

"You are not the one to do that. Only Sherlock-"

"Get out."

Mycroft heaved himself up from the chair and tapped his umbrella on the carpet. "As you wish. Until next time, John."

* * *

The man's lips moved along the column of Sherlock's neck, sucking kisses onto his skin, and Sherlock hummed in appreciation, leaning his head back and felt the man chuckle against his skin as his fingers plucked at the buttons of his shirt.

"So eager. Would there be something I could do about that?"

Sherlock smiled lazily. "I can think of a few things. "

"I'm sure you can, darling." The man teased, pushing the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders and throwing it to the side. Sherlock shuddered, eyes fluttering closed, head thrown back in pleasure as the man roughly palmed his torso, dragging his nails along Sherlock's skin, leaving red tracks behind. The next shudder was entirely involuntary as the man latched onto Sherlock's chest with his lips and too much teeth and sucked, pulling hard and drawing a pained moan from his lover. Sherlock's hands came up to clutch at the man's shoulders, careful not to struggle, and pulled him closer, forcing another convincing moan from his throat as the man grew rougher, finally pulling away when a sizeable mark had formed.

"So fucking pretty." The man growled, running his fingers over the skin and Sherlock felt an unpleasant jerk in the vicinity of his navel as the man began maneuvering him back against the sofa, pushing him to lay down against the expensive, creamy fabric. "God, the things I want to do to you."

"Oh, fuck, _please_." Sherlock whispered throatily, closing his eyes as the man kissed him, moving his lips over his and tangling their tongues together, lowering his body to grind against Sherlock.

Two minutes twenty-six seconds, keep him stalled, Sherlock thought, kissing him back with equal measure and thrusting his hips up. He was _beyond_ eager to have this job done. It had been the worst one yet, messy and complicated, and he'd drawn on all his acting skills to keep his target from becoming suspicious of his intentions. After everything he'd invested in this, he couldn't afford to tip him off that he was here to kill him.

And he had invested in this. Heavily.

He'd played hard to get at first- the shy male intern at a large corporation, fresh out of college and not understanding the ropes, needing someone to take care of him. It had worked perfectly, drawing the man's attention but that attention had started to wane after a few days and so Sherlock had acted. Pretending to be a blushing virgin, something he had really never been but that was beside the point, allowed his mark to feel powerful in their relationship. It had also meant it was incredibly easy to keep his attention fixed on Sherlock and not what was taking place in his company.

Now, though, the final night, Sherlock wasn't about to let any of _that_ happen again- not when he could complete the job _now_.

He had already flirtatiously managed, in a truly horrible and predictable way that would have made John laugh, to execute his plan:

"Let's have a drink first."

"Okay. One drink. Then I'm taking you to bed and ravishing you until you scream in pleasure."

Very doubtful, Sherlock had thought but had grinned eagerly and vaulted from the sofa, wriggling his arse enticingly as he padded over to the drinks table and mixed one for both himself and his lover.

He had scattered the powder into the man's drink and then served it to him, watching him drink it with wide, innocent eyes.

"Now, where were we?" He had asked, grinning lasciviously and now Sherlock was where he was- flat on his back and feeling the man's erection digging into his hip as he undulated against him, palming Sherlock's own cock through his trousers as he waited on the powder to act. Sherlock made appreciative noises, thrusting his hips, counting down the final minute in his head.

The man's movements became slower, his breathing labored, the hand at Sherlock's crotch stopped its relentless groping, and Sherlock allowed himself to relax.

Finally, the man slumped atop him, dead, and Sherlock unceremoniously pushed him away, dumping his body to the carpet with a heavy thud without a second thought. He strode across the floor, snatching up his shirt and re-buttoning it as he slipped on his socks and shoes, then meticulously wiped away all traces he had been in the penthouse before going into the bedroom.

The safe he was after was under a hidden panel in the floor, accessed by depressing a statue on its pedestal- very unimaginative and James Bond- and it stirred in Sherlock's memory a certain film John had once made him watch. It had been a cheesy action/adventure movie John had loved, even when Sherlock had poked major holes in the plot and derided the poor acting skills.

The files were there, along with the USB drive and Sherlock pocketed the lot before leaving, making sure no one saw him and taking the back way where the camera angles were spotty. The man's death would be investigated and he would be blamed for it- but the shy, innocent, blonde haired intern the man had been shagging would be long gone by that time.

Once clear of the building, Sherlock punched in the appropriate code in his phone and started making his way to the designated area Mycroft's men would pick him up from.

He felt in desperate need of a shower.

* * *

John fiddled with his cheap mobile, turning it over and over in his hands, thinking of everything that had happened that day.

"_You hate it here."_

God, yes, he did. He hated these four walls even more than he had hated his bedsit after being discharged. He idly wondered what Sherlock would be able to deduce about his flat, the previous owners, his neighbors. The thought brought a smile to his face and tears to his eyes and he gripped the mobile tighter, resting his forehead against the table and breathing deeply.

If the money had been Sherlock's and was now his…it didn't feel right to use it on this flat. It felt like it would sully Sherlock's memory to spend it on keeping himself here, in a place he hated. No, if he were going to spend it on anything, it should be something that meant a lot to Sherlock, a place where John had a chance at being happy.

His decision made, John pushed a button on his phone and listened to the dial tone.

"Mrs. Hudson? This is John." He smiled affectionately at the sunny happiness, tinged with worry, which filtered from the other end. "I was wondering if you would mind if I stopped by sometime for that cuppa?"


End file.
